She is a plum goddess,
Wielding wicked words,
That can tear apart a soul,
As well as stitch it back together.

Her freak flag is flying,
As she rocks out to the black crows,
And doctors wounded writers
Devoid of magic words.

She drools over Chris Robinson,
And follows old dudes around Harlem,
Crying over ashes,
Buried under a library floor.
Photographing mosaic memorials,
Splattered with flowers
From grieving fans.

There is so much to say about
This empress of language,
Who rides tidal waves of words
On a sharpened pencil.

She is my inspiration,
My cause for this poem,
She is the most interesting
Woman in the world.
She is my creative Writing Teacher.